


Underoos

by librarybooks



Series: Words Kept [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Temporary Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Iron Dad, Precious Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, Tony-centric, and the angst will be RESOLVED, listen I'd die for them, no angst until chapter 6, spider son, they are so good, this whole thing is very domestic, you know it baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-11-18 02:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18111179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarybooks/pseuds/librarybooks
Summary: Mr. Stark,Sorry in advance for the gift. Ned thought it would be funny.Love,Peter (AKA Spider-Man, not Spider-boy, also please use the hyphen)P.S. oh god, is this a potential breach if I sign my name as Peter and Spider-Man? Did I just give away confidential information? You might have to set this card on fire.Or: five times Peter keeps his promises to Tony, and the one time he doesn't.





	1. C+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha another endgame trailer dropped the other day and guess who's not okay? me
> 
> beta-read by Exi, [Jenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiribakuwu), and [Kels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSugarPlum), thank you sooo much angels! I appreciate it beyond words. I love you forever and a day!!
> 
> This fic is now available in [Portuguese](https://www.wattpad.com/story/186509301-underoos-iron-dad-spider-son-au-pt-br), translated by LarryIsMyHome!

Peter answers on the second ring.

“Uh, Mr. Stark? Hi?”

The greeting is phrased like a question. Peter’s voice is a quiet through the phone, unsure, and Tony’s first instinct is to crack a joke.

He opens his mouth to speak, snark leaping to his lips unbidden — but before he can, Peter’s next question rushes out, a river of words from a burst dam.

“Is something wrong? I just — you never call me directly, and I was — did something happen? I don’t mean to sound paranoid, I’m just — you never know, you know, and —”

“What? No.” Tony holds up a hand as if Peter could see it, warding off the onslaught of words. “Stop talking for a second.”

The kid’s rapidfire speech stops then, expectant.

Instead of responding, Tony stares at his receiver for a solid ten seconds. Does he really call so rarely that when he does, Peter assumes that there’s an immediate threat? Good instincts for a budding superhero, but still. What’s with the uncertainty? The kid’s acting like getting a call from Tony Stark’s personal number was a big deal, or something.

Well, it was, but Tony isn’t about to announce it. Something Pepper told him about tooting his own horn, or whatever.

He clears his throat and continues. “Nothing is wrong. Why?”

“Oh.” Peter releases a shaky sigh. “Oh, good. I just thought, you know, that there was an emergency.”

Tony blinks. “Not everything is dire, kid.” He rubs the back of his neck, pacing as he speaks. Peter’s anxiety bothers him — not in the sense that it annoys him, but in a Tony-feels-somewhat-responsible-for-it sort of way. “Do you not trust me? I can’t just call you to ask about your day?”

“Um,” Peter fidgets at the other end. Tony can hear the drag of a chair being pushed back, the rustle of his clothes as the kid sits. “It’s just, I kind of have to assume that something’s wrong. You know,” his voice lowers. “In our line of work.”

Tony almost snorts. “‘Our line of work.’ Wow, Pete. You make it sound like we’re in the mob.”

“It’s a serious thing!” Peter interrupts, miffed. His words come out like a squeak and Tony has to bite back a laugh.

“You’re preachin’ to the choir, kiddo.”

“Mr. Stark, I…” His voice tapers off, and Tony imagines Peter shaking his head, lips pursed.  “Well, if it’s not an emergency, what do you have to ask? Are you smuggling me across another foreign border?”

“First of all, it wasn’t smuggling. I’m not affiliated with the cartel. Second, don’t interrupt me.”

The kid says, “Got it,” and Tony can see Peter’s resigned nod in his mind’s eye.

God, they were spending too much time together.

“Listen…” Tony threads his fingers through his hair. His words come slowly, and there’s a weight on his shoulders that wasn’t there before. “It’s not bad to be prepared, but really… Take it easy, okay? You scared the shit out of me.”

Peter barks a nervous chuckle. It’s totally humorless. “Why?”

“You were panicking — I thought you killed a guy in a hit and run, or something.”

“I can’t even drive, Mr. Stark —”

“Good thing then, huh? Shut up and take a deep breath.”

Peter obliges, and it’s quiet on the line for a moment, a little awkward but companionable. Tony taps his foot on the ground, patient.

Peter exhales. With each sigh, his breathing evens out. It doesn’t take long for him to gather his bearings. He utters a quick “Thanks,” which Tony acknowledges with a hum of approval. “Good. Now that you’re not impersonating an asthmatic, we can have a normal conversation.”

“‘Normal,’ sure,” Peter voice is more level, and Tony knows he’s alright. “You couldn’t come up with something better than ‘asthmatic?’”

Tony grunts. He’d have to keep a strike card of unnecessary remarks Peter makes, just so he can tally them up and give them to May. A sweet, vengeful sort of prank on the kid for April Fool’s Day, or something. “I’m an adult. Don’t lecture me.”

“Oh?” The kid sounds amused now, which Tony sort of fears — a relaxed Peter invites many things he isn’t prepared to handle, like questions about teenage mutants, the Avengers, and obscure pop culture references he simply doesn’t have the patience to deal with.

“Yeah, yeah — my bad, sorry.” Peter laughs outright, not sounding sorry at all. “But the fact that you had to preface that with ‘I’m an adult’ speaks volumes, Mr. Stark.”

Tony pauses for a second, taken aback. He stomps down the immature flare of indignation that rises in his chest, instead opting to say, “Since when are you so defiant? Dropping ‘Mr. Stark’ like it’ll excuse the sassiness —”

“Doesn’t it, though?” Tony can hear Peter’s smile.

It does. Tony would never say so. Instead, he makes a mental note on Peter’s list of remarks for May. “Familiarity doesn’t mean instant go-ahead, you know. I’m not your bro.”

“It would be kind of weird if you were.” Peter pauses. “I don’t have bros. I’m a nerd.”

“How hipster of you.”

“What — Mr. Stark,” the kid has an edge of exasperation in his tone, which Tony notes with a tiny spark of satisfaction. “No offense, but why are you really calling?”

“Oh, that. Right.” Tony straightens his tie, coughs once. “Never gave an explanation, did I?”

“No…” Peter says slowly, and his tone adopts that old uncertainty, like he still isn’t convinced by Tony’s claim that everything is fine. “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure? About what, the world not ending?” Tony can’t scold him for doubting his word, for simply being wary; it’s more a result of the constant presence of danger than a lack of respect. “No. I’m not.”

It would end eventually, probably. Not in their lifetimes, and not if Tony had something to say about it, but danger was part of life. As a superhero on the front lines, it’s — well, it’s an occupational hazard. Tony only regrets that Peter has so much to be afraid of, so soon.

Tony has lived with the constant presence of fear since the day he burst out of a cave in the Mark I, since he had crash-landed in the desert and escaped the Ten Rings. He’d watched his house blow up in his face; he saw the Chitauri invade his city; he flew into a wormhole with a nuclear warhead and fell back out again; watched Pepper fall into an inferno; fought alongside a giant green gamma monster that could crush him at the slightest provocation.

Tony has seen a lot. He knows what true, unbridled terror feels like. It’s not a good feeling, that’s for sure, but it is what it is. This pang of shame is foreign to him, and Tony comes to the dazed realization that he feels guilty because Peter now has to suffer through the same.

His genius brain reminds him that this is utterly stupid. It isn’t Tony’s fault; he isn’t the spider that had bitten the kid. Hell, he isn’t even related to the company that created the spider that bit the kid.

Tony hates the guilt, and he hates that Peter will inevitably end up hurting. He also isn’t sure whether this hatred is directed at himself, for introducing Peter to this world, or at fate for twisting the kid’s destiny forever, for not leaving him a choice.

Fate. What an idiotic, irrational thing. Tony doesn’t even believe in fate, yet here he is, monologuing about the intricacies of his inner turmoil. He almost laughs at the drama of it all. What a load.

A distant call of his name snaps him back to reality, and Tony decides then he can’t face the moral ambiguity of his actions with the kid on the phone, so he does what he does best — he ignores it.

Tony shutters those feelings, that guilt, and locks it away. Concerns for another day.

“ —rk. Mr. Stark? Tony?”

He hadn’t realized he’d zoned out. Tony drags himself out of his reverie, feeling heavy with exhaustion. Peter speaks again, a little more nervous than before. “Are you there?”

“Yeah, kid. I’m here,” Tony shakes his head to clear it. “Sorry, got distracted for a second.”

“Oh, good. I was worr — I, er, okay.” Peter exhales another breath. “So nothing’s wrong? Nothing at all?”

Nothing wrong? Tony wants to groan. The Accords split up the Avengers, Rogers is on the run, Rhodey’s legs are hurt, Pepper doesn’t like the new blouse that Tony bought her, and Tony’s pretty sure he needs therapy. The whole world is messed up. Everything’s wrong.

Everything is, but it isn’t up to the kid to fix it. And given the reason for this phone call, Tony almost wanted to laugh. It isn’t that serious, but to be fair, Peter doesn’t know that.

“Nothing is wrong with the state of the world, as of right now.” As he says it, Tony feels like a liar. He thinks for a moment, then amends himself. “Well, there are no Avengers-sized problems, if that’s what you mean.”

Peter releases an audible sigh of relief. “Care to explain, then?”

“Sass,” Tony warns, his finger extended as if he were scolding Peter in person. “Anyway. I gotta ask you something.”

“Yeah?” Peter’s voice rises in pitch, the way it does when he’s anxious, and he clears his throat. In a deeper, quieter tone: “Shoot.”

“Might as well cut to the chase: what’s this May’s been telling me about you skipping class?”

“Wh — um, that —”

There’s a heavy pause. Tony drums his fingers on the back of his phone, waiting. He thinks he hears Peter stumble, fiddle with something, and swear at his unlaced sneaker.

“Language,” Tony says, and then regrets it — he isn’t Rogers.

Peter groans at the other end. He fumbles through a series of “um’s” before Tony loses his patience. “Spill, Pete.”

When he speaks, the kid sounds distraught. “How often do you talk to May?”

Tony’s lips crease as he shakes his head. “I asked you first.”

“That’s my aunt, man —”

“Yes, we’ve established that this woman, who happens to be good-looking, is your aunt. Also, I’m happily engaged. Neither of these facts are relevant.”

Peter’s words come out in pieces. “She — Mr. Stark.” He cuts himself off, managing only “‘Good-looking?’ Seriously?”

“If you don’t start forming cohesive sentences, I’m taking the suit away again.”

“Wait, no —”

Tony speaks with May often. It’s been their own little secret for some time; she’ll check in about her nephew’s status as a pseudo-Avenger and his safety, and Tony relays the information as gently as possible — “Yes, that was Peter scaling the Washington monument in D.C., sorry about that, I wasn’t there.”

In return, May keeps Tony up-to-date with Peter’s everyday activities, minus the habitual vigilantism. That’s Tony’s department. Peter’s school life and grades are included in this equation.

Not that he’s a bad student — Peter’s a wonderful student. He’s the portrait of “a pleasure to have in class,” and “very bright,” — all of that encouraging junk that school teachers scrawl on their report cards twice a semester. Smart, kind, the works — but it’s this very academic excellence that made his recent lapses so obvious.

According to May, Peter’s teachers had reported his absences on more than one occasion each week for the past several months. These skips are affecting his grades, but Peter… He’s too distracted by diving off buildings to focus.

The idea of the kid abandoning his studies leaves Tony with a sour taste in his mouth. He himself hadn’t loved school, but MIT was fun for a time. He’d messed around, built robots, met women — meanwhile, Peter hasn’t even graduated from high school yet he’s pretending to be an adult.

Clearly, the kid can’t juggle school and his faux SI internship. The situation’s a rickety shanty town house; one would eventually give, collapsing without preamble and crushing everything inside. It’s precarious, this lack of permanence. They need to find a stability that has thus far been unavailable to them.

Tony and Peter have discussed it at length before, but what’s he still out here doing? Prioritizing resolving petty bike theft over his chemistry grade — over his future?

Tony can appreciate everyday heroics, but no. There’s a divide between civilian life and hero work, and ignoring it doesn’t fly him. Not at all.

“Aunt May talks to you regularly?” Peter finds his voice. “I don’t —”

“Not the point of this conversation,” Tony reminds him, although the prospect of teasing Peter more is tempting. “Don’t change the subject.”

Peter mutters something else that Tony can’t hear, but when he sighs, Tony knows he’s won.

The admission comes with weary reluctance. “I, uh, didn’t really mean to miss class. It’s like that time during the Decathlon in D.C., you know, I just had to go somewhere —”

Tony cuts him off. “Stop right there. You don’t have to be anywhere, kid. Unless I call you. Then, and only then, do you have to be.”

“But —”

“No ‘but’s’! God, Underoos, what am I going to do with you?”

Peter releases a half-hearted laugh. They both know it isn’t genuine. “Um, sorry. I am.” He stops. Speaks again. “Sorry, that is.”

Tony pinches his nose. He isn’t great with this mentor thing, and he feels uncomfortable acting like a parent. He has nothing to base it on, and — Tony doesn’t really want to think about the implications of that.

Tony inhales. He holds his breath, just for a second, and then he exhales. When he opens his mouth, his voice is quiet, offering advice that Tony isn’t sure he has the right to give. “I know superhero-ing means a lot to you. And you make a difference, spiderling, you do. But your first obligation is to school.”

“I… know. But I feel like there’s so much more I should do,” Peter’s voice is soft, and Tony imagines the knit of his brows. His words carry a heaviness, ridden with guilt as they seep into Tony’s skin. “It feels so unproductive to sit in a classroom when I could be helping people.”

He’s frustrated, and Tony understands. He does, because he’s been the one to bear the weight of such responsibility before. It’s a fine line to walk, a balance beam, but they both know that Tony’s right.

“You know how you can help other people?” Tony leans forward. It’s almost conspiratorial as his voice drops to a whisper. “Helping yourself first.”

“Mr. Stark, that’s —”

“What, Pete? It’s what?”

Peter falls silent. Then: “You’re right.”

“Thank you for that validation.” Tony rubs his eyes with one hand. He feels a migraine coming on. “You’re still a student. School comes first, promise me.”

The line is quiet for a moment before Peter heaves a sigh. Reluctant acceptance colors his voice. “Yeah. Okay, I promise. It’s just… hard, this multitasking thing, you know.”

“You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” His tone is laced with sarcasm, but Tony can hear a shred of gratitude there, for the reassurance — because Tony cares, maybe more than he’s willing to admit.

There’s a pause then, and it feels a lot like indecent exposure. Tony is caught between some twisted bit of paternal affection and wanting to hide within his mental fortress of indifference. He isn’t sure what to say, or how to feel.

The conversation lapses. Tony hears Peter breathe, apprehensive, like he wants to ask a question, but the line remains quiet. They listen to the emptiness until Tony clears his throat. “Well, alright then.” He nods once, resolute. “Bring those grades up, or you’ll never get into MIT.”

A surprised noise escapes from Peter. “I — what? I mean, I guess, but who says I want to go to —”

Tony hangs up.

 

Three weeks later, Tony gets a text from May.

**_May Parker, 4:31 p.m.:_ What did you say to him that I didn’t?**

**_May Parker, 4:32 p.m.: May Parker sent a photo_ **

**_May Parker, 4:32 p.m.:_ Whatever it was, it worked. Thanks Tony.**

Tony opens the attachment. It’s a photo of Midtown’s mid-semester grade report, dated that day. He double taps his screen and zooms in.

Peter’s report card is riddled with absences, bullet holes in his attendance record, but his grades are perfect. _A, A, A+, A+, A+._

Tony feels a flare of pride rise within him, intense and burning like the arc reactor embedded in his chest. The fierceness of the feeling catches him by surprise; it’s almost aggressive, this pride, and makes him want to do irrational things, like saunter into his business office and brag about someone other than himself.

He isn’t sure what to do with it. Store it away and forget about it? Embrace it, and allow it to blossom?

God. He has no fucking clue.

Instead of sorting out his emotions, Tony resolves to take the kid out for ice cream later. First, though, he’ll put in a few calls to MIT.

Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first foray into the mcu fandom, so I'm a littttttle nervous! listen I just want to give Tony and Peter nice things before endgame takes everything away from me. also, a disclaimer: this fic is canon divergent, but only slightly. Infinity War happens eventually, just not when Peter is a sophomore.
> 
> Updates just about weekly! I hope you all enjoyed, and thank you for reading <3
> 
>    
> talk to me here!  
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/dekusneakers?lang=en)  
> [my tumblr](https://othersideofthe-universe.tumblr.com)


	2. Finger Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter swears and Tony eats a few sandwiches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe we're back baby!! thanks A MILLION TO [JENNA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiribakuwu) AND [KELS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSugarPlum), MY BABES, for editing and keeping me alive and basically assuring that I don't drown in my writing. I love you both always.

Tony’s in his lab when everything goes to shit.

That is, when his Mark 43 goes to shit, although not literally. If it were any other day, he’d pepper his hyperbolic statements with a “literally,” except FRIDAY would correct him on his inappropriate usage of the word, and he doesn’t have the time nor patience for that.

The only way to describe what happens is human error, but Tony isn’t so inclined to believe such; Tony, naturally, is of the opinion that he’s the  _ best _ and it’s certainly no fault of his that the Mark 43 would malfunction.

Is it too Stalinist to relegate to Siberia anyone who thinks otherwise?

(There is a clear divide between Tony Stark and other inventors with the exception of perhaps Princess Shuri — she’s in a league of her own, and had quickly earned Tony’s respect soon after she’d presented her first exhibition of Wakandan tech. Sure, none of her materials (vibranium aside) hold the same pachyderm heft and dignity of the Iron Man suit, but they are nonetheless impressive. Aside from her, the rest of the so-called  _ creators  _ and  _ visionaries  _ are wannabes that create ugly things with titles equally as hideous, as if they’d been named by a cat walking across a keyboard. They’re just intellectuals wanking off to old blueprints that Tony had left far behind in 2008.)

So Tony isn’t so quick to take the blame for a design error in his Mark 43, and he’s just as slow at avoiding the collision that wreaks his suit into pieces while he’s in it.

It starts like this:

The Iron Man suit is the epitome of excellence, the product of genius, superheroism in a to-go box. It’s a complex machine — and a “high-tech prosthesis,” yes — so Tony’s always working on it, developing the technology to keep himself ahead of the game.

Spending the afternoon in his lab isn’t unusual. Not even the vicious claws of hunger and thirst are enough to draw Tony from its shadowy recesses. He knows he should rest, is well-aware of the risk that comes with overwork — exhaustion is an old friend. But there are hundreds of projects to work on, hundreds of inventions scattered around, all created to serve a different purpose; hundreds of things to do.

The size of the lab is unknown to outsiders, its territory as vast and unexplored as the depths of the ocean. It’s private, it’s his. Tony likes it here, away from the world. So when Pepper asks him to come upstairs for lunch, Tony acts as a cryptid would and refuses to make himself known.

“Boss, Ms. Potts is asking you to join her in the dining room.”

“Not now, FRI.” Tony pauses in his work for just a moment, spinning the hologram of his suit over his desk. “I’m busy.”

“She’s insistent, sir.”

Tony doesn’t reply, ignoring the AI as he studies the prints for his Mark 43. He’s shuffling through his series of designs, minute alterations at most, when FRIDAY speaks again.

“Boss, she’s —”

“Does no one listen to me?” Tony glances at the ceiling, as if in prayer. He blinks, demanding silence with his glare. “FRIDAY, I said that I’m —”

“Tony, please.”

Instead of FRIDAY, it’s Pepper’s voice that sounds over the intercom. She’s exasperated, the heaviness of a sigh hanging beyond each word. “Can’t you take a ten minute break?”

“Pepper?” Tony’s fingers meet the bridge of his nose, pinching. “Pep, I love you, but please don’t override my systems.” He exhales. “I can’t take a break right now.”

“Why not?” Her voice carries the lilt of feigned innocence, daring Tony to make up an excuse. “I’ll leave you alone if you can give me a legitimate reason for why you can’t take ten minutes for lunch. You’ll overwork yourself, Tony. Again.”

“Yeah, well.” Tony can imagine Pepper’s face as she admonishes him: the tilt of her head, the quirk of her eyebrows. He wants to smile, but imagining his fiancée’s charms will lure him out of his lab, and he has business to attend to. “I can’t. I have the kid coming over for school stuff, and I have to finish these modifications on the suit before he gets here.”

Pepper coughs, sudden, as if she were choking on the words. “What? Since when do you tutor?”

“I don’t,” Tony grunts, his acknowledgement grim and resigned. “But I made a promise.”

“I see,” Pepper clears her throat. Once, twice. “That’s nice.” There’s a beat of silence, and she speaks again. “So by ‘kid,’ I assume you mean Peter?”

“Considering the fact that I don’t let any other kids within ten feet of me —"

“Hm.” Pepper’s tone changes, light, the way it sounds when she tries to stifle a grin. “Well, I hope you’ve finished those modifications, because he’s here.”

Tony sits back in his seat, fiddling with a pen in his grip. He taps the table with it, his eyes sore from staring at screens and holograms for so long — maybe he does need a break. “He — what?”

“What do you mean ‘what’?” Tony hears the smile in Pepper’s voice, although he doubts he’s off the hook for missing lunch. Again. “It’s  _ Peter _ , Tony. He’s already here. He’s  _ been _ here.”

Tony puts the pen down on his desk. “When did he get here?”

“Not too long ago. Half an hour, maybe? I made him a sandwich.”

“Half an hour?” Tony sits up straighter, turning towards the entrance of his lab, as if Peter were standing outside of it. The doorway is vacant, but Peter’s voice appears on the intercom, hesitant and nervous.

“H-hi, Mr. Stark.”

Tony stands, pushing his chair backwards. He threads his fingers through his hair, feeling oddly guilty. “Pete, why didn’t you text me?”

“I did, a few times.” Peter’s voice comes slowly, as if unsure whether broadcasting himself across the Stark speaker system was allowed. “You didn’t answer.”

“Ah, I’m, uh — I’m working, kid.”

“I, um, figured. It’s fine.” Peter’s words are stunted and awkward, like he’s embarrassed, and Pepper chuckles in the background. Tony imagines her leaning over to ruffle the kid’s hair, flustering him further. Peter’s the type of kid who makes you want to do weird, familial things like that.

“Well.” Tony exhales. His chest feels tight. “Thanks for waiting.”

Peter coughs. “No problem.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then the kid clears his throat. “Um, you know, if you’re busy, I can just go. We don’t have to review —"

“What? No. You’re not getting out of this one.” Tony places his hands on his hips, chin tilted to address the intercom. His voice adopts the tone that he uses when he needs to impose his authority on a child; it appears the most frequently when he’s talking to Peter. Or Clint. “You promised the grades would improve, so we’re reviewing.” The 

“They  _ have  _ improved —"

“I know, I talked to May. Good job, by the way.”

“ _ How often do you talk to my aunt _ ?”

“Not relevant, Underoos.” Tony holds up a hand, as if Peter can actually see him. “Stop trying to avoid it and let’s get to work.”

Peter makes a disgruntled sort of noise, halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “I’m not trying to avoid it, Mr. Stark, really —"

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, Pep.” Tony dismisses the holograms hanging over his workspace with a wave of his hand. He studies the papers on his desk for a moment, making a decision. “Do we have any of those little finger sandwiches?”

“Sure. We were supposed to have some  _ at lunch _ —"

“Sorry, sorry. I promise, we’ll have a super romantic dinner, I’ll carry you to the top of the Empire State Building and we can —"

“Please don’t.” But Pepper releases a chuckle, albeit quiet, and Tony considers that a win.

“Alright then.” He looks over his blueprints for the Mark 43 and then nods. Might as well get some work done with Peter hanging around. The kid could learn a thing or two. “Can you give some of those sandwiches to Peter so he can bring them down?”

“You really have to finish the suit now, huh?” Pepper murmurs, but she’s resigned. Trying to sway Tony Stark is more difficult than arguing with a brick wall, and he knows it. “It doesn’t need adjustments.”

“You don’t think so?” Tony cracks a smile as he reactivates his holograms. “Just because something works doesn’t mean it can’t be improved.”

There’s a heavy sigh on the intercom. “I believe the princess of Wakanda said that.”

“And? She’s right.” Tony directs FRIDAY to unlock the door for Peter, then turns back to his desk. “Hey, Pete? Come down to the lab. I’m going to run diagnostics on this new upgrade and then we’ll go over your homework, okay?”

“I — I can come down to your lab?” Peter’s voice cracks halfway through his sentence, excitement spilling through. He pauses, clears his throat. “Uh, are you sure?”

Tony passes the ceiling an exasperated look, as if Peter could see him. To be fair, there are very few people he allowed in his lab, but Peter — well, he’s  _ Peter _ . Tony isn’t sure the kid knows it, but he sort of has his own free-for-all pass to anything Stark-related. “Yeah, kid. I invited you, didn’t I?”

“Well… Yeah. Okay, yeah!” Peter sounds just about as eager as any 15-year-old nerd would be about getting a front row seat to Tony Stark’s lab (read: very). There’s movement upstairs, loud footsteps and thumping, as if someone were hopping around. “I’ll be down in a minute!”

Tony wonders if this is a bad idea. But, on the plus side, finger sandwiches. And the kid. Showing off to Peter is always a bonus.

“Pay attention to him while he’s down there, Tony,” Pepper warns, and Tony feels vaguely threatened. In the background, there’s excitable chatter that sounds like Peter.

Tony heaves a breath. “Alright kid. Don’t forget the finger sandwiches, or I’m not letting you in.” 

“Roger that!”

“Door’s unlocked. Bring your backpack down.”

 

When Peter comes down to the lab, Tony Stark is on the floor amid a pile of scattered pieces of titanium alloy.

“Wh —” Peter chokes on his words, the platter of sandwiches in his hands forgotten. He slips his backpack off his shoulders and drops the food on a nearby table. “Mr. Stark?”

No response comes from his mentor. It’s eerily quiet, save for the soft buzz of Led Zeppelin on Tony’s radio. Unbridled fear flares in his chest, palpable as the debris before him, and Peter hesitates as he steps into the wreckage. He moves to touch Tony’s shoulder when the man stutters and gasps, rolling onto his side. 

Peter flinches in surprise. “Mr. Stark!”

“That’s me,” Tony grunts, eyes squeezed shut. His hands are tucked close to his body, his legs splayed.

Peter quickly gathers his mentor in his arms, shifting him into a sitting position. Tony’s movements are stiff like he has arthritic pain.

Peter scans his body for injuries, but he doesn’t spot anything severe. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Tony releases a groan. “Fuck.”

“I, um.” Peter lifts Tony’s arm over his shoulder, moving to stand. “I agree, I guess. What the hell —”

Tony closes his eyes again, shrugging Peter off. He stands by himself, moving in slow motion like a goliath. “I don’t want to talk about it. Do you have those sandwiches?” 

“Mr. Stark —”

Tony leans on a table, grunting as his body registers a new series of bruises. He feels sore. His  _ soreness _ feels sore. Peter hovers by his side, protective, although the biggest wound Tony is suffering from is to his pride. “I’m fine, kid.”

Peter withdraws slowly, watching his mentor with wide eyes. “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”

The older man elects not to respond. He finds the platter of sandwiches and leans heavily on the table, shoveling one into his mouth. He chews loudly, staring into space, as Peter shuffles a few feet away. Tony swallows, reaching for another sandwich.

Tony has devoured three when he finally speaks, but he doesn’t address Peter. He glances at the ceiling. “FRIDAY, replay the most recent recording, five minutes ago.”

“Playing recording from security camera 110, 5:11 p.m.” There’s a soft whirring, and a hologram appears in front of the two men, featuring a miniature Tony standing in the center of his lab.

Tony pauses the feed, passing a glance at Peter. He slowly shoves another sandwich in his mouth. It muffles his voice, making his words garbled. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll rescind your Avenger status.”

Peter stiffens and raises his chin. “I promise, Mr. Stark. Your secret is safe with me.” His eyes pass over the wreckage of the lab, and his brows furrow. “What is it? A weapon? A secret project?”

“No —”

“By the way, I’m not officially an Avenger, am I —”

At Tony’s expression, he falls silent. Peter casts his gaze away, and they both turn to face the screen. Tony presses the play button.

In the hologram, Tony stands alone at the center of the lab on a small platform. He’s fiddling with a device on his arm, muttering to himself, when he looks up. He claps his hands, spreading his arms wide, and says, “Alright, let’s do this.”

He presses a button on the arm device, and for a moment, nothing happens.

Then the sound of shifting metal can be heard, bumping and crashing into things. Pieces of his Iron Man suit begin appearing in the frame, flying towards his body like lethal projectiles.

Peter’s impressed that Tony didn’t flinch.

The Tony on-screen allows the suit parts to hit him, encasing him in armor, piece by piece. One boot comes first, then a palm cannon, then another boot. The groin cover comes next, causing both men watching the feed to wince as it hits Tony at a speed that was definitely enough to bruise.

The rest of the suit comes bit by bit, dragging at Tony’s arms like weights. The man looks tired, the suit pulling him down from his stand. He stumbles as part of his leg armor smacks into him from behind.

Tony’s almost fully encased now. He’s only missing his chest plate and his mask, large pieces of sheet metal that Peter is sure aren’t exactly lightweight. The Tony on-screen is turning back towards the platform when it happens.

The chest plate appears in the frame, racing towards Tony with a vengeance. It carries a significant amount of the bulkiness of the Iron Man suit, so when Tony sees it coming towards him, he steps backwards. The piece seems to increase in speed, tearing through the air before it smacks into Tony with the force of a stampeding rhinoceros.

Tony flies backwards, smacking the floor with a sickening  _ thump _ . The disconnected seams of his suit prevent it from sealing as it usually would, and the Mark 43 shatters around him like an egg on concrete. Tony’s sprawled on the ground, a ragdoll with his arms and legs askew. He groans audibly, only once.

A light scans Tony’s body, and FRIDAY’s voice sounds in the video. “There’s nothing broken, boss. Multiple contusions detected, along your tailbone and back.”

“Yeah,” Tony puffs, collapsing onto the ground fully. “I detected those too.”

The feed pauses then, going black, and the hologram fades. There’s a beat of silence, and Tony rubs his forehead. This disaster will be squirreled away like a scandal, joining the early footage of his first trial runs as Iron Man. Those clips will  _ never _ see the light of day, ever, unless FRIDAY decides to stage a mutiny and kill him via embarrassment. The media would have a field day with that one.

Peter makes an odd sound in his throat, and Tony remembers his company.

“Jesus,” Peter says, “Christ.”

Tony snatches up another sandwich. “I know what Jesus you’re referring to.” He tosses the finger food at Peter. The kid catches it clumsily. “You don’t need to specify.”

“Hey, hey.” Peter raises his hands, clutching the sandwich between his finger and thumb. The movement placates Tony, although his expression remains sour. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I thought you were seriously injured.” Peter’s lips twitch. “So this is way better.”

Tony looks away. “It’s not funny.”

“I didn’t say it was funny.” 

Tony’s head snaps back to face Peter. The kid is making a half-assed effort to cover his mouth with his hand. “You implied it.”

Peter shrugs, the urge to smile too great. His grin is wide and toothy as his arms drop to his sides. “At least you’re alright.”

Tony sniffs, passing the kid another glare. “Thanks.”

Peter nods, the corners of his mouth upturned. He stares at the place where the hologram disappeared. “Why were you messing around with the old tech, anyway?” He glances at his mentor over his shoulder. “You have the retractable armor now, don’t you?”

“I have hundreds of different types of armor, kid.” Tony sighs. He glances at the finger food platter, considering his tenth sandwich. “Thousands, probably. Thought I’d update some old tech.” Tony gestures to the now vacant spot where the hologram was. He shrugs. “Turned out to be a bad idea.”

Peter, against his better judgment, releases a small snort. Tony whips around to look at him, eyes like daggers, but the smile on the kid’s face doesn’t fade.

“Sorry, sorry.” Peter bites his lips. “It’s just —"

Tony raises a hand. A warning. “Don’t say it.”

“You were taken down by your own suit —"

“Shut up, kid.”

Peter does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people I love: peter parker and tony stark
> 
> thank you for reading!! chapter three is my favorite thus far, I think, so I'm super excited to put it up!


	3. Father's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you are my daaaad, you're my dad! boogie woogie woogie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aha... ahaha... I was gonna post this next sunday but SURPRISE it's less than a month until endgame and I cried looking at the promos so here we go, some softness to numb that pain
> 
> thank you to [Kels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSugarPlum) and [Ineia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineia) as always for being the best goddamn beta readers on the planet I love you both so much

It’s a warm afternoon in June, and Tony’s kind of pissed off.

He doesn’t know exactly what day it is — not too uncommon an occurrence, to the consternation of most everyone acquainted with the more unfortunate parts of him — but he does know that he probably shouldn’t be in the lab. He’s gone too many hours without proper sleep, without a meal consisting of more than stale potato chips and two-day-old coffee. Tony knows he’s going crazy, because the voice in the back of his mind that sounds uncomfortably like his father has wriggled its way to the forefront of his thoughts. It slides slickly through them like poison, infecting every bit of him, down to the nerve endings in his fingertips.

Some days, it’s easier to ignore the voice. Some days it’s little more than an annoyance, the flitting of an irritating fly that can be brushed aside with a swat. Other times, though, it’s more akin to a swarm of wasps — pricking at his skin over and over like needles, buzzing so loudly that everything else is drowned out.

Today is the latter.

It’s not until he pulls his phone out of his pocket and happens to glance at the date that he realizes what his subconscious has already figured out.

Father’s Day.

The sudden understanding floods his being, the awareness of exactly _why_ he feels so shitty, and Tony wants to throw up. Does it really have to come back every goddamn year, like seasonal fucking allergies?

It’s just a day, sure. Just a bullshit holiday, a scam to sell watches and Old Spice deodorant. It has no special meaning if one just elects to ignore it. But Tony’s an emotional masochist when it comes to his own problems, and he’s more inclined to self-medicate or suffer in silence than dismiss the day as he should.

Disregarding his IQ, not even Tony Stark is immune to stupidity and irrationality. He isn’t a perfect genius, contrary to popular belief. He’s rather impulsive, no matter the sensitivity and confidentiality of his exploits. He’d shit-talk Father’s Day and Howard Stark without hesitance, no matter how it would reflect on his family history. As a general rule, Tony’s pretty terrible at keeping secrets.

He kept his identity under wraps for all of two minutes prior to announcing his affiliation with Iron Man, and he’s rather adept at stopping a room with his superhero status. Tony Stark does most things — not all, but _most_ — with pomp and grandeur. He isn’t shy in the spotlight, and he has a big mouth. Secrets come out.

While most of his life is broadcast, the subject of intrigue for beings in this galaxy and the next, well — there’s a surprising amount that the public doesn’t know.

The panic attacks, the nightmares about black holes, nuclear warheads. What he endured in a long-forgotten cave in Afghanistan. How his father treated him.

In terms of secret-keeping, Tony supposes that he should be grateful, in a way. If everyone knew what keeps him up at night, that’s more weaknesses to exploit, heroic garbage like that. But rather than fearful, Tony’s annoyed. He thinks it’s bullshit that the media perception of him is still “following in his father’s footsteps, former Merchant of Death,” when those descriptors don’t illustrate who he is at all.

Tony considers it often, studying his reputation with a critical eye. He wonders how they could get it so wrong. The public is easily swayed, willing to turn away, to ignore the facts.

Howard Stark wasn’t the greatest man in the world. Tony can say so with as much conviction as he’s capable of, but he’s always hard-pressed to be believed. It kind of makes him want to punch a wall. To yell. To blow something up with his palm cannon. He briefly considers doing so as he glares at the date on his phone.

Tony doesn’t particularly care about refining himself before the press. He doesn’t want to lie about his childhood, because it was crappy and he reserves the right to say so. His relationship with his father had been tumultuous at best, and if anyone asks, he’ll gladly — well, not gladly, but certainly without any compunctions — tear down whatever preconceived notions the public has. To hell with their amazing, if eccentric, genius billionaire; their hero, the _illustrious_ Howard Stark.

If Tony’s being honest, every qualifier is true. Howard was a genius, Tony can attest to that, and definitely a billionaire — his bank accounts can attest to _that_. Tony’s not sure if he’d really use the word “eccentric”, because that translates his surname into an oddity, and he isn’t sure he wants to subscribe to the stereotype of the eccentric rich man who lives alone with his gold.

For his father, though, “eccentric” still fits. As for “amazing” or “hero”...

Tony’s still sometimes amazed at all that Howard was and all that he accomplished. Just… not always in the best ways.

He remembers the first and only time he’d ever tried to give Howard something for Father’s Day: he was so young, either seven or eight, and still fully convinced that his father was the second coming. Howard was Jesus incarnate, or better than sliced bread, whatever the hell kids with great relationships with their parents thought of them.

Looking back, the gift was nothing special — a personalized digital greeting card. It was embedded with a microchip that chirped out trite, pre-recorded messages, like “Happy Father’s Day!” and “You’re amazing, Dad!”

It was crap, a stupid project that tiny Tony had spent three weeks on. But he was young still, and he was inordinately proud of it.

Howard had looked it over with his critical gaze for all of five seconds. The sixth second found it discarded on the tabletop, declared “amateur work at best” and “a perfect waste of time”.

“Holidays like this are a hack, Anthony,” he’d said, his tone condescending and all-too-familiar. It was a timbre that Tony heard all too often, a perfect mix of disdain and impatience. Young as he was, he knew it well. “And perpetuating every foolish absurdity when you could be doing so much more... You have potential. Stop squandering it and wasting your efforts on —” He’d looked at the culmination of Tony’s hard work and wrinkled his nose, as if it were made of manure. “—nonsense. Throw that away. Where is your mother? Go bother her.”

The next day, the front page of _The New York Times_ proudly displayed Howard Stark. Anyone who bought the publication would see his wide smile, practiced as he boasted about his young son and his “enormously complex, spectacularly designed, and thoughtful Father’s Day gift.”

It was a blatant lie.

It was also the last year that Tony made anything for his father.

That’s not to say that he hadn’t been asked — countless times, personally and professionally, if he was ever planning on one-upping himself in the following years. How could he ever top that wonderful, adorable, clever little present he’d made in his childhood? How charming! How sweet!

Tony’s responses were always just about the same, fluctuating slightly based on his age: I’m trying to focus on my studies, I’m too busy with extracurriculars, and oh, how could I even hope to try? No gift could ever measure up to the greatness of my father.

The last excuse is almost a little too honest, more honest than Tony usually was with others, but the woman who’d asked him had laughed along as if he had intended it to be funny. He hadn’t realized that it had sounded like a joke.

When the questions changed from “are you making him anything?” to “how will you be honoring his memory?”, Tony stopped responding altogether. And the public, well — for all that Tony’s stopped shying away from publicly discussing his complicated past with the man, the world still adores Howard Stark.

So Tony is henceforth and forever an advocate against Father’s Day, for no reason other than he thinks that it’s pointless. It’s with justifiable frustration that he stares at his phone as if it had personally wronged him, as if its declaration of “June the 16th” is a cardinal sin.

He’s been glaring at the screen for the better part of a minute when a notification distracts from his simmering. Tony swipes down to check, unsure if it’s dire, but it’s just a text from Peter.

**_Kid, 12:15 p.m.:_ Hey Mr. stark can I swing by for a minute**

**_Kid, 12:15 p.m.:_ I mean not literally swing I’m not in the suit rn**

**_Kid, 12:16 p.m.:_ i could put on the suit but I didn’t plan on it. this actually has nothing to do with the suit**

**_Kid, 12:16 p.m.:_ I have something for you! It’s a surprise, but it’s cool, I promise**

**_Kid, 12:17 p.m.:_ oops I didn’t mean to send so many messages sorry Mr. Stark**

Tony sighs. He has projects to attend to, stale chips to eat, and a wall to punch, but maybe the kid’s presence can cheer him up.

Just maybe. He isn’t a fucking sap.

Tony unlocks his phone to text back. **Sure. I’ll meet you in the lobby.**

**_Kid, 12:17 p.m.:_ great! Coolcoolcool. thanks!! :-)**

 

Peter stands in the doorway of Tony’s office, grinding the toe of his shoe into the carpet. A brown paper bag dangles from his left hand, plain and brandless. He’s been carrying it since he met Tony in the lobby; he guesses that it’s Peter’s lunch, or something.

The kid shifts nervously, although Tony can’t fathom why — Peter’s done plenty more amazing things than step into a billionaire’s office. Even so, his gaze flicks around the room as if anticipating an ambush.

Tony huffs a sigh. “Are you going to come in?”

Peter’s head snaps up, and Tony thinks he resembles a startled deer. He nods. “Um, yeah.”

Tony holds out his hand, a welcome, and Peter moves into the space one step at a time. He drags his feet, slow, and the quiet is somewhat awkward. Tony’s eyebrow twitches as the kid takes a seat in the chair across from his own.

Tony studies him with vague interest, like he’s a difficult mathematical equation. “What is wrong with you?”

Peter’s gaze switches from the floor to meet Tony’s. He wipes his palms on his pants, looking every bit like a child awaiting a reprimand for detention. “What do you mean?”

Tony gives him a long, knowing look. Peter blinks once, owlish, and breaks eye contact. He clears his throat and it’s too loud, amplified by in the silence. “Nothing is wrong. I’m just nervous, I guess.”

Tony understands the discomfort Peter might feel — he does, because Tony himself doesn’t like the vulnerability that comes with being so easily read. It’s reasonable to be uncomfortable with that, especially as a superhero, so yeah, Tony gets it. What he doesn’t understand is why it bothers the kid that his mentor knows him well enough to sense when something’s off. A funky little enigma, Peter is.

Today really is turning out to be a headache-inducing nightmare. Tony should’ve stayed in bed, or in the lab. God, he needs a drink.

“Nervous? With me? Please.” Tony twists in his chair, standing up. “Okay, kid. If you’re gonna be a weirdo, at least let me order some takeout. I need something to distract me from whatever… you’re doing.”

Peter makes an indignant noise. “I’m not _that_ bad —”

“You are.” Tony opens one of his desk drawers. He rifles around, feeling for the telltale rustle of a paper menu. One of them _has_ to be in there — either Thai or pizza. Tony keeps both nearby for convenience purposes. Peter doesn't speak, watching him with an expression that's slightly affronted.

Tony searches for the better part of a minute, but he finds nothing. When he removes his hands, his finger pads are dusty from touching the unused corners of the drawer.

“Where the hell —” Tony slams the drawer shut with a sigh. He needs something fattening right about now, or else he’ll end up throwing himself off his balcony sans Iron Man suit. He slumps into his seat. “God, what’s a guy gotta do to get some carbs around here?”

Peter watches him from across the desk. When he speaks, it’s low, as if their conversation were confidential. “Are you hungry?”

Tony throws his head back and sighs. “Not particularly, but I could go for a Twinkie.”

Peter blinks, only once, before he shrugs. He lifts his paper bag and deposits it on the desk. “You’re contradicting yourself.”

Tony looks at the bag for a moment before his gaze returns to Peter. Couldn’t the kid eat his peanut butter and jelly elsewhere? “Wanting a Twinkie is not synonymous with being hungry.”

“Semantics.”

“No —”

“Well,” Peter stands, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Good luck with that. It was good to see you today. I’ll just head home —”

“What? Where are you going?” Tony squints. “You just got here.”

“Y-you’re a little busy.” Peter shifts his feet, and his mouth flattens into a line. “I don’t want to distract you.”

Tony leans back in his chair. He threads his fingers through his hair, and the movement releases some of the tension knotting in his shoulders. “What, did you just stop by for shits and giggles?”

“No,” Peter removes his hands from his pockets, still standing. He shoves the brown paper bag across Tony’s desk so that it sits directly in front of him. “I came to bring you this.”

Tony stares at it. He blinks, glancing back up at Peter. “You’re giving me your lunch?”

“What? No.”

Tony studies the bag. “I mean, thanks kid, but I have a personal chef that can —"

“My — what? It’s not my lunch. Why would you think it’s —” Peter’s eyebrows furrow, but as he looks down at the crinkled brown paper, he makes a face. “My… lunch. Wow, no. I’m not in elementary school.”

“It’s not your lunch?” Tony eyes the bag curiously. He pokes at it through the brown paper, feeling something solid. Definitely not a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“No. I use a vintage Captain America lunch box, not paper bags.”

Tony levels him with a glare, and Peter gives him a small smile. “Aunt May got in this really intense bidding war on eBay for it. It’s my favorite, dude. I’d never use a paper bag in place of that.”

“Oh, you’re serious.” Tony tilts his head. “I honestly thought you were kidding.”

“Yeah, well. It’s a cool lunch box.” Peter’s face flushes. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure we’ve established that it’s not food, Mr. Stark. Not a Twinkie, either. Sorry —”

“Don’t be sassy.” Tony doesn’t have the time or energy to jest with Peter, today least of all. He turns his attention back to the bag. “What is it, then?”

“It’s a gift.” Peter says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He clasps his hands in front of him. “For you.”

Oh. _Whoosh._ Wind right out of Tony’s bitchy little sails. He suddenly feels very, very guilty. For subjecting the kid to his annual Father’s Day meltdown, among other things.

He expresses this sentiment with as much eloquence as he can muster. “Oh.”

It isn’t that Tony hasn’t received gifts before. He has — plenty of them, so many that it’s actually grown tiresome. After a while he’d wanted nothing to do with them, so now they all end up piled in storage. His basement looks like a rich man’s episode of _Hoarders_ , except Tony isn’t really willingly hoarding. He doesn’t want any of the shit they’d find in there. He only has so many trophy shelves, and those gold-plated weights praising him for bullshit are barely worth the space.

But a gift from Peter, like a gift from Pepper, is almost certain to be special. Pepper’s gift — _proof that Tony Stark has a heart_ — had quite literally saved his life, once upon a time. Tony isn’t so naive to believe that Peter’s will do the same, but still.

Tony’s not a sentimental guy, but he also isn’t unfeeling. His suit is made of metal, but he isn’t a _fucking robot._ He isn’t. And although a tougher shield than an arc reactor encases his heart, it’s been breached before. First it was Pepper alone, but Peter has a way of chiseling through that armor.

Tony doesn’t notice at first, but his frustration — because of the holiday, because of his father — it’s already receding, as distant as the tides.

He starts to open the bag, but Peter makes a strangled noise. “It’s a surprise!” His words are strained, like he’s embarrassed. He clears his throat, but it does nothing to remove the nervous squeak. “Don’t open it until I leave, okay?”

Tony drops the bag on the desk. It lands with a solid _clack_. “If it’s one of those exploding confetti cans, I swear to God —”

“It’s not, I promise.” Peter’s expression is still pained, his smile stretched a little too wide. “Do you not trust me, after all this time?”

“Remains to be seen,” Tony grunts. He doesn’t mean it and they both know it, but Peter forces a laugh anyway.

“I’m, um.” Peter steps away from the desk, sheepish. He points at the door. “I’m gonna go. The gift is just a little something for you. I hope you like it.”

“Uh,” Tony scratches his chin. His fingernail drags across the stubble, the noise scritchy and loud in his ears. “I’m sure I will. Thanks, Pete.”

“Sure,” Peter’s bearing is soft, open, with just a little of the nervousness that Tony knows well.

The kid turns on his heel. He crosses the office and opens the door, but pauses in the doorway. “By the way, Mr. Stark,” Peter glances over his shoulder. His cheeks are pink, his smile small. “Happy Father’s Day.”

He steps outside, closing the door behind him, and Tony is left alone in his office.

Tony doesn’t move, touch the bag, or think. He feels the phrase crawling over his skin like an insect, tickling, demanding his attention. It takes Tony about thirty seconds to actually register what Peter said.

The realization comes to him slowly, without any hard impact. There’s no denial, no electric shock. It feels like a hug, or the first breath of spring after the skeletal touch of winter has left. It’s a weird, abstract happiness that Tony doesn’t know how to parse, and he’s kind of embarrassed, but not unpleasantly so.

The poisonous voice of his father is a perverted cousin to this strange euphoria. Nerves tingle in his fingers, urging him to open the gift, but he suddenly feels stupidly afraid. He’s warm, his chest constricting, and Tony wonders if he’s dying.

Father’s Day has never meant much to him; it just served as an ugly reminder of his many holidays growing up under utilitarian rule. It’s not a holiday he wanted to ever actively celebrate, to preach about — what was it, anyway? A _hack_ , Howard had called it. A scam.

Tony hadn’t realized just how much his father’s ideals had rubbed off on him.

He peeks at the inside of the bag. There’s an envelope there, tucked amongst crumpled balls of colorful tissue paper. It’s charming in a Peter-esque way, and Tony finds that he’s smiling. It’s a small one, just a tiny curve of his lips, but entirely genuine.

Tony opens the card first. It’s flat and colorful, clearly not embedded with a microchip like Tony’s was all those years ago. It’s from Hallmark, cheesy in design, with messy writing scrawled across the page. Peter’s hand is hardly legible, but Tony’s heart swells as he reads the spindly lines of text.

_Mr. Stark,_

_I don’t really know how to do this. Is this weird? I guess it’s a little weird._

_I know this is kind of unconventional, but I thought I should tell you. You’ve done a lot for me — a lot that isn’t easily repaid. This might be strange for you, but I wanted to say it._

_Happy Father’s Day, Tony._

_Thank you for supporting me, for protecting me, and for giving me the coolest suit I’ve ever seen in my life. Cooler than Iron Man’s._ Definitely _cooler than Captain America’s (don’t tell him I said that, please. I still respect the guy)._

_Sorry in advance for the gift. Ned thought it would be funny._

_Love,_

_Peter (AKA Spider-Man, not Spider-boy, also please use the hyphen)_

_P.S. oh god, is this a potential breach if I sign my name as Peter and Spider-Man? Did I just give away confidential information? You might have to set this card on fire._

Tony’s eyes burn. Goddamn allergies again. He thinks if he ignores them, they’ll go away.

He tucks the card in the pocket of his jacket, patting it once.

Tony unravels the rest of the gift slowly, removing each individual leaf of tissue paper one by one. There are two things in the bag, both haphazardly bundled in Iron Man-themed Christmas wrapping paper.

Tony unwraps the larger gift first. It’s round and heavy, and Tony touches what feels like a handle. When he pulls off the paper, he’s unsurprised to find a plain white mug. He turns it in his hands, and Tony has to bite his lip to keep a smile from splitting across his face.

The cup is emblazoned with the words “World’s Greatest Dad,” except the word “dad” has been crossed out. Beneath it, Peter painstakingly recreated the font in Sharpie, replacing the word with “mentor.”

Tony can’t hold back his grin. _Damn right._

He picks up the flat present after, soft to the touch compared to the first. Tony tears away the paper in one fell swoop, but when he studies the gift, he drops the package. The present hits his desk with a soft _thump_. Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

It’s a pair of Iron Man Underoos.

He stares at the underwear sitting on his desk, unassuming. They look so absurd, so out of place, that Tony tips his head back and laughs loudly. They’re tiny, the packaging advertising “perfect for your toddler!”, and he’s is halfway between amused and insulted. Tony wonders if Peter had picked the smallest, gaudiest possible set. They’re a hideous design, if he’s being honest, but the gift is clever.

Tony can appreciate a good joke, but what the fuck is he supposed to do with these? Give them to charity? He could probably give them to Clint for his birthday, or something. Peter would be glad to know that Tony did something useful with them, like humiliate a fellow Avenger.

Father’s Day might be a hack, or a scam, or another insult from Howard Stark’s endless lexicon, but Tony doesn’t have to hate it. He had taken his father’s perception to heart, abhorring the holiday with an evangelical righteousness as if Father’s Day were akin to Satan.

It’s not that stupid, he thinks. Tony’s beginning to understand why it persists throughout the years, despite the scamming. He understands, especially if it makes all dads (or mentors, or father figures, whatever the fuck) feel like _this_.

He doesn’t burn Peter’s card, despite the security risk. He brings it home and plunks it on his dresser like a souvenir. When Pepper notices it, she says nothing. He spares her a single, “No, I don’t have a secret kid.”

“Not biologically, maybe.” Pepper smiles. “But yes, you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one:  
> me, sobbing: they.. are fam..ily..
> 
> new chapter up on our regular sunday!


	4. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter needs a hug, and also he really likes _Frozen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey!! happy sundaaay
> 
> thank you to [Kels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSugarPlum) and [Ineia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineia) as always they are my angels

“Can you tell me what this is all about?”

“It’s really nothing,” Peter walks behind him, shuffling as he tries to match Tony’s pace. Tony glances over his shoulder as Peter appears by his side, his lips pulled in a closed mouth smile. “Just wanted to come by.”

“Then why the urgency?” Tony pulls out his keys. Peter had texted him about a half hour ago, signaling “mayday,” and “can I please come over, like, right now.” Tony had given his consent but he still isn’t sure what the deal is.

“Wow,” Peter shakes his head. “Can I not swing by for a quick visit?”

“I can’t help but feel there’s an ulterior motive, but sure.” Tony unlocks the door to the penthouse lounge. He used to host parties here, but it’s almost barren now. The room rings with a hollowness, echoing with memories of broken friendships. Broken promises.

Tony doesn’t spend much time alone here. The only sign it’s lived in is a jacket tossed across the couch. Peter makes his way towards it, flopping down as if it were his own. He makes a contented noise, sinking into the pillows, and closes his eyes.

Part of Tony is glad he feels comfortable — the other part urges him to snatch up the coat before it gets wrinkled. Tony does.

“Don’t ignore me, kiddo.”

Peter cracks an eye open. “Where are you picking up urgency, Mr. Stark? I’m fine.” He spreads his arms, questioning, and stretches his legs across the floor. “Absolutely relaxed. The comfiest.”

“Clearly.” Tony levels him with a flat look, and Peter sits up a little straighter. “Just keep your feet off my coffee table.”

Peter makes a face. “You think I’d — May would kill me if I did that at home. I wasn’t raised in a zoo.”

Tony snorts and gives a lazy, one-shoulder shrug. “Queens is sort of —”

“Hey, watch it. I’m the representative of Queens.” Peter smiles. “Someone’s gotta be the hero around here.”

His mentor levels him with a flat look, and Peter backpedals. “Uh, I mean, besides you.”

“Nice save, kid.” Tony grunts. “You can be the exclusive hero of Queens. You have my blessing.”

“Thanks, but can you just give away part of the city like that?” Peter cocks an eyebrow. “Permission granted by the great Iron Man himself. Do you own Queens or something?”

“Aren’t you flattered?” Tony avoids the question. The sofa dips as he sits beside Peter. “You should be.”

“Ha, ha,” Peter says, but the mocking is half-hearted, and he scoots over to give his mentor more room.

Tony reclines in his spot, lifting his legs to rest them on the table he told Peter to avoid. The kid glances at him, eyebrows raised, but says nothing. It’s quiet for a moment, in a companionable way. Peter turns his gaze to the skyline out the window.

He’s tired; Tony can tell. Truthfully, he’s not sure what the kid needs today, why he came by, but he can give him this.

A moment of peace.

The skyline is familiar for Peter, he’s sure, given that the kid spends his afternoons nose diving off of those same buildings, but it’s different from the inside. Tony gets it. So he waits, expectant, while Peter enjoys the relative silence.

It’s ten minutes after they’ve entered the penthouse that Tony clears his throat. Peter jerks in surprise, as if the noise had been disruptive. Tony remembers his heightened senses then, feeling apologetic for approximately two seconds before he opens his mouth to speak. “So? What’s going on?”

Peter leans back in his seat. His gaze switches from the view outside to the ceiling above. “Nothing, really. Same old.” He drums his fingers on his knee. “School stuff.”

Tony nods. Peter’s grades are still high — May sent him another report last week. “Glad you’re working on it.”

“Yeah,” Peter sighs. “Everything is fine.”

“Just ‘fine’?” Tony tosses his arm over the edge of the sofa. He studies Peter, watches as he fiddles with his hands. He knows that the kid’s anxious, but there’s not much he can do about it— not really. “Have you been doing normal kid stuff? How’s your friend Fred?”

“His name is Ned.”

“You should be taking breaks with Ed to do teenage things, like eat churros or build that Lego Death Star.”

“His name is —” Peter exhales. “Nevermind. Yeah, we hang out sometimes. I’m just… I wanted to come by because I was a little anxious.”

“Anxious?” Tony leans forward. “Anxious how?”

“I’m… a little overworked, but also bored. It’s weird.” He turns to face his mentor, and his exhaustion is more prominent — in his posture, his expression. “I thought talking to you would help me calm down.”

Superheroes tend to carry a sort of weariness to them, and seeing it in Peter, Tony flinches. Reminders of the kid’s burden make him feel ill.

Peter, oblivious, rubs the spot between his eyebrows. He continues. “Do you ever get bored? With the status quo, I mean?”

_Tired. He’s so tired._

Tony’s mouth feels dry. He tries to swallow the guilt, but it remains lodged in his throat, sticky like peanut butter. His voice takes a moment to come. “What do you mean by ‘status quo’?”

“Like… this.” Peter flaps his hand, making a vague, widespread gesture. “All of this. The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. I mean, it’s not like I’m hoping for people to get hurt, but _something_ —"

“Whoa, whoa,” Tony says, voice strangled. He leans back, as if distance can protect him from Peter’s verbal onslaught. “You’re saying you _want_ a big issue to arise?”

“What? Dude, no — I’d never.” Peter huffs a breath. “You didn’t let me finish.” His hands twist in his lap, his body thrumming with unabsolved anxiety. “I’d never want that. I don’t want anything bad to happen. It’s just… the everyday routine is exhausting.”

Tony doesn’t take the time to reprimand him — _I’m not your ‘dude,’ I am your teacher_ — instead, he only cocks his head. “Wait. I’m confused.”

Peter tilts his head, a question, and Tony sighs. He steeples his fingers, studying the kid with all the authority of a corporate executive. “So… Your routine as the ‘friendly neighborhood spiderling’ is exhausting, but you want something bigger to happen? Something new?”

“It’s _Spider-Man_ ,” Peter says in a quiet voice that lacks his usual indignation. He looks at Tony again, with a matter-of-factness that’s foreign to him, an expression that doesn’t belong on a face as youthful as his. “Okay, full disclosure. I’m having an existential crisis.”

Tony blinks. “Sounds serious.” He moves to rest his chin in his hand. “Why?”

“Tough question.” Peter blows a breath of air out of his mouth, tousling his hair. He shrugs. “Well… Yeah, my routine is exhausting. But I don’t think I’m making much of a difference right now. I’m not helping you enough. I want to feel useful.”

For a moment, Tony says nothing. His mind shutters, blocking out outside stimuli, anything that can interfere with his thoughts. No difference? Not helpful or useful? Peter’s been a lifesaving addition to the superhero roster, a blessing when Steve Rogers had gone Ultimate Rogue Moron on the Avengers, has proven himself capable countless times. And he doesn’t think it’s enough?

An image comes to Tony then, an uncomfortable one, and suddenly he’s viewing Peter in a sense more familiar than just his protégé. In him Tony sees himself, young and afraid and dying to impress his father, no matter the consequences. In him, he sees fear. Pain. Strength, too.

The idea makes Tony feel queasy. His stomach churns, his head is spinning, but he doesn’t have time right now to unpack all the revelations that are threatening to burst forth — about himself, about Peter, about all the unsettling similarities he sees between them.

He feels almost angry. Peter doesn’t have to try as hard as Tony does; the kid’s already amazing. Tony’s spent so long thinking so that it’s almost unfathomable to him that Peter doesn’t see it the same way.

“You _are_ useful, Pete.”

Tony speaks slowly, each word a weight, heavy with truth. He’s not exactly known for his eloquence; his comments are usually harsh, bitter, brimming with sarcasm so sharp it’s hard to have a conversation with him. He wants to articulate the respect he has for the kid.

He tries his damnedest. “You think I pick up random kids off the street and recruit them? I don’t make super suits for just anyone. You’re Queens’ personal Avenger. New York’s Avenger. Do you know how lucky they are to have you?” Tony pauses. “How lucky we _all_ are?”

Peter doesn’t speak. He braces his knuckles on his lip, eyes downcast.

Tony’s stuck between letting him ruminate and being intrusive. He opts for the latter. “Is this… is this what you wanted to talk about?”

“I’m —" Peter looks up at his mentor. His eyes meet Tony’s briefly before he averts them again. “Yes. No.”

Peter slumps down, covering his face with his hands. It flushes pink behind his fingers, bright and hot. His voice stutters behind the makeshift mask. “I — um. I want to make you proud. I’m trying to. I promise I will.”

Tony’s words fail him. He struggles to speak, fights for it, but his tongue feels like cotton. When his voice does come, it’s raspy and quiet. “You already do.”

Peter stills. His shoulders rise to his ears, stiff, and Tony places a hand on his back. The kid doesn’t move, and Tony hesitates before giving him a pat. Once, twice.

It’s awkward, but Peter wheezes a chuckle. He leans into the touch, and the tension bleeds from his muscles like melting snow. An odd sense of relief finds Tony.

“Thanks.” Peter’s voice is a croak. His gaze falls on his hands, nestled snugly in his lap. “Sorry for the, um. The breakdown.”

Tony clears his throat. He feels raw, exposed, like a doctor had performed surgery on him and left him wide open. He speaks with a gruffness that doesn’t match his words. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Peter’s lips curve upwards, only slightly. The smile is minute and tight, but genuine. His voice warbles, just a little. “You know, you’d make a really good dad.”

Tony’s body seizes, coiled tight like a spring. His brain shuts down. His nerves, his heartbeat, the blood in his body — it’s thick as molasses, frozen in the wake of Peter’s words.

_You’d make a really good dad._

Tony’s never really thought about it before. The idea of being a slave to some parasitic thing grown in Pepper’s stomach for nine months never appealed to him. Children? A nuisance. For a long, long time, his opinion on the subject hadn’t changed.

It’s not often that he’s willing to be proven wrong. But Peter has reshaped… everything. The kid’s brought a new definition to everything that Tony understands about himself as a teacher and the people he protects. It’s an odd realization to have so late in life, but Tony’s starting to believe that his earlier sentiments are more the remnants of Howard’s beliefs than his own.

In dealing with his son, Howard Stark invariably wore an expression of harassed fatigue. Tony struggles to understand, now, how his own father could’ve been so dismissive when being around Peter makes Tony feel like he’s doing something right. Every tidbit that Tony thinks he’s learned throughout his adulthood, every fact and life lesson, it’s all gone out the window. It’s all moot, because this, right here, this singular thing — being a role model for someone he loves — is more beautiful than anything he’s experienced thus far.

He’ll never within an inch of his life tell Pepper that, but it’s true.

God, is this why people want to be parents?

Tony doesn’t know how to articulate his thoughts. He half-chokes when he tries to speak. “What.”

“Um, sorry.” Peter’s eyes become saucers, his cheeks darkening in color. “Just an observation. A weird observation.”

“It’s — it’s not weird.” Tony’s voice sounds weak to his own ears. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

Peter ducks his head. “Sure.”

“I do,” Tony says again. “Appreciate it. Listen, Pete.” He coughs, both to fill the silence and scratch the itch in his throat. “It’s not easy for me to… express myself.”

Peter’s eyes slant to meet Tony’s, and his eyebrow lifts. “I think you’re plenty outspoken.”

“Yeah, uh-huh.” Tony holds up a hand. “This is what we’re not gonna do. I’m being soft and kind, kid —”

Peter bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Soft and kind?”

“Are you making fun of me, Mr. Parker? I’m trying to be sincere.”

The corners of Peter’s mouth twitch. “I’d never.”

“Watch yourself, smartass." Tony raises a threatening finger. "You’re on thin ice.”

“Alright, alright.” Peter reclines in his seat. He kicks up his feet again, but this time Tony says nothing. Enough heaviness for now. They have every other day of the week to discuss the weight they constantly bear on their shoulders.

A few minutes pass in relative silence, and then Tony’s stomach rumbles. He thinks about making food. Immediately reconsiders — there are at least six decent take-out places within a one-block radius. He turns to Peter, snatching up his phone. “Chinese sound good?”

Peter tilts his head, thinking a moment before he nods his affirmative. “What about pad Thai?”

Tony shrugs. “Sure, I guess. We’re not ordering it all the way from Queens, though.”

“Almost any Thai is fine by me.” Peter reaches across the coffee table for the television remote, passing Tony a glance as he does so. “Do you have Netflix?”

“Do I have Netflix?” Tony snorts. “Of course I have Netflix. I could own Netflix, if I wanted —”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Please don’t buy Netflix just to prove a point, Mr. Stark.”

“I didn’t say I would, but I could.” Tony dials the number for the Thai place down the street. He fiddles with his Bluetooth, tucking it into his ear. “I totally could.”

“Whatever.” Peter tosses the remote in his hands. He fumbles as he tries to catch it, switching the channels to access the Netflix application. “Can we watch _Frozen_ ? We’re watching _Frozen_.”

"Really?" Tony watches the television screen switch from the loading Netflix logo to a blue snowflake. The line on his Bluetooth connects to the restaurant, the ring tinny and loud in his ear. “Again?”

“Elsa is great —”

“Of course she is. But this is the _third time_ —”

Peter turns to face him, a smile stretched wide across his lips, and Tony’s words die in his mouth. He can’t argue with the kid over something so simple, especially not after everything today. “Fine,” he relents. “But you’re in for it if I get ‘Let It Go’ stuck in my head again, I swear to God —”

But Peter laughs, and Tony knows he’d watch _Frozen_ a thousand more times, because that’s what good fathers do.

_You’d make a really good dad._

_Yeah,_ Tony thinks. _I would._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> srry for the dialogue-heavy chapter I just wanted Tony to express his admiration bc Spider-Man is so worthy  
> anyway have you guys seen umbrella academy because klaus, ben and five hargreeves have joined peter and tony in the league of Fictional Men I'd Die For and I'm gonna WRITE A FIC


	5. Graduation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Tony attends Peter's high school graduation, because we deserve that good quality stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's a little late!! i had birthday things to do so I've been AAAAAAA. this one makes me emotional. >>>beta read by [Kels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSugarPlum), Emer, and [Ineia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineia), ily

Tony wakes up in his lab, face pressed against the cold metal of the worktable. There’s an ache in his neck from falling asleep at an odd angle. He snaps it to the side, hissing at the sharp crack the motion elicits, and a tiny washer falls to the floor from its place stuck on his cheek. He pokes a finger at the spot and feels the imprint, imagines how red and bruised it must look.

Tony squints, still heavy with sleep, and stretches his arms over his head. He’s ragingly thirsty and befuddled in his naptime fog, but waking up with bits of hardware stuck to your face will do that to a person. It must not have been that long of a nap, anyway; Pepper would have woken him up otherwise.

Tony vaguely wonders what time it is, because he has a thing today — although he supposes Peter’s high school graduation warrants more of a descriptor than that — and if he’s late, May will rip him a new one. That, and he really wants to go.

Tony blinks the bleariness out of his eyes as he checks the time on his phone, almost dropping it as he scrambles to stand. He is running late, so maybe his supposition about Pepper was wrong.

To be fair, Tony’s never punctual and a few years with his fiancée isn’t enough to beat the lateness out of him. He runs on Tony Time, because the pomp and importance of Iron Man requires its own time zone. He prefers to dictate when things begin by his own personal clock, which is set at least an hour behind everyone else’s.

His lateness hasn’t proven to be that big of an issue, albeit somewhat irritating for those acquainted with his sloppy personal habits. Meeting with other CEOs is Pepper’s job, so Tony doesn’t have to be anywhere that requires promptness. Being a hero and an inventor allows for some flexibility in his schedule. Today, though, Tony cannot be late.

His phone dings, alerting him to another text message.

**_Kid, 4:13 p.m.:_ Will you make it tonight? Starts in an hour!**

**_Kid, 4:14 p.m.:_ I saved you a seat, just like I promised!**

**_Kid, 4:14 p.m.:_ No problem if you can’t come though haha I understand**

Tony glares at the time. “Fuck.”

Bits of metal from his prototypes scatter across the tabletop as Tony pushes away. He tucks his phone into his pocket and leaves the lab in a flurry. Tony takes the steps two at a time, barreling past Pepper and into the bathroom where he slams his hands on either side of the sink.

Peter’s high school graduation is at 5 p.m. on the dot, and Tony looks like he’s just risen from a coma. There are other indents in his face that signify a nice, long nap, at the expense of his complexion. Tony grunts as he stares at himself in the mirror. “I’ll definitely be late, but so much for fashionable.”

“Tony,” Pepper appears in the doorway. She wears only one high heel and toes the other with a stockinged foot, bracing her arm on the doorframe. Her blouse is untucked, and she’s in the middle of putting an earring in her ear. At least Tony’s not the only haphazard one. “Are you ready to go?”

Tony meets Pepper’s eyes, then turns to glance at himself. He’s not wearing a tie, and his shirt has an oil stain on it. The sleep marks on his face make him seem a little hungover, and he thinks he looks more like a used car salesman than a billionaire superhero. At least no one will recognize him and ask for autographs at the ceremony. Tony buttons his jacket and straightens his shirt. He looks back at his fiancée. “Yep.”

Pepper gives Tony a once-over before shaking her head. “No,” She clicks her tongue. “You’re not.”

“Pep —”

“Go take a shower, please. Peter deserves a hygienic guardian.”

“That’s what May is for,” Tony argues, but Pepper has already turned on the water. She looks at him, expectant, and Tony sighs. “Fine.”

“Good. I’ll grab you some clothes and call Happy. I have a meeting to get to, but send Peter and May my love, will you? Happy will wait downstairs.”

“Alright.” Tony tosses his dirty clothes into a bin over his shoulder and steps into the shower. The cold water runs down his body in rivulets, shaking away the last vestiges of exhaustion. An alertness thrums under his skin like caffeine. He rubs his face. “I will.”

 

It’s hard to remain inconspicuous when you pull up to a high school in Queens in an Audi R8, but to his credit, Tony tries. He steps out of the car in dark tinted sunglasses, looking like the portrait of an incognito Hollywood star.

“You look like a celebrity in disguise,” Happy rolls down the window on the driver’s side of the car. “Pepper was right when she said the sunglasses were too obvious. Maybe you shouldn’t have ditched the baseball cap.”

“I pay your salary,” Tony snaps, sliding his glasses down his nose so he can look Happy in the eye.

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” Happy shrugs his shoulders, starting to roll the window back up. “I’ll see you inside.”

Tony gives a curt nod, watching his driver take the car away. He turns back to the school, tucking his hands into his pockets and tilting his head back. It’s a big brick building, utterly unremarkable on the outside. There’s a banner strung across its front, proudly displaying “Midtown School of Science and Technology’s Class of 2019.”

It’s cute, he supposes. Quaint and charming in the way that high schools are only after you’ve left them behind for a few decades.

There are a few people scattered on the sidewalk, shouldering past in true brusque New York fashion. A passerby spares Tony a glance, gaze dull as it skates over him. The man starts to turn away, but before his eyes are completely averted, a spark of recognition flashes within them. He does a double take, interrupting the flow of foot traffic.

Tony grimaces. It comes with the name, with the suit, but he doesn’t want to sign any autographs right now. Tony strides up the concrete stairwell towards the entrance of the school, thinking somewhat longingly of the discarded baseball cap as another person recognizes him.

When he swings open the front doors, Tony’s hit with a sense of nostalgia. It’s familiar as all schools are to graduates, though he was never enrolled here. The smell of musty textbooks and lemon Pledge invade his nostrils. Tony wrinkles his nose.

Inside, a large group of people congregates around a white plastic table. There are women sitting behind it in foldable metal chairs, wielding envelopes and little white cards that must be tickets. Their table is adorned with a banner that says “Parent-Teacher Association,” although Tony doesn’t need the sign to know who they are. They’re reminiscent of every “mother” stereotype in coming-of-age films, and Tony wonders if May would ever volunteer for something like that.

Voices from the women around the table float in Tony’s direction. One of them throws back her head and laughs. Blonde curls bounce over her shoulders, and her teeth flash white as she says, “Rachel just made varsity soccer. I heard Carol’s daughter didn’t even get invited back to the second day of tryouts. But how is your son doing, Sarah?”

Tony immediately rescinds his earlier theory. May would have no patience for the drama of a PTA board.

The group of people on Tony’s side of the table is composed of adults and children. They shove each other as they try to purchase the tickets, and Tony hesitates to dive into the throng. He watches as a plethora of hands obscure the papers on the table, picking and grasping like animals begging for scraps, and he takes a step backward.

No matter how much respect Tony has for Peter, no matter how much love, this table of PTA moms alone is enough to test his resolve. Tony clasps his hands behind his back and wishes he had stayed in the car with Happy.

“Mr. Stark!”

A hush rushes through the crowd at the call, and Tony’s shoulders rise minutely as he’s jerked from his thoughts. He glances behind him, his sunglasses dipped low on his nose, and searches for Peter. “Kid?”

Peter’s jogging down the hallway, holding his cap on his head. He looks breathless, but he’s smiling. His graduation gown billows behind him like a cape. Tony almost makes a crack about superheroes, but he holds his tongue.

The voices of the people in the room have reduced to whispers, rustling softly like the pages of a newspaper. Tony hears them anyway, mingling in his ears in a cacophony of “Tony Stark?” and “Are they related?”

He ignores them, holding up a hand to greet Peter. “Hey, Underoos.”

Peter doesn’t respond verbally. Instead, he barrels into Tony, pulling him in a rib-crushing embrace. Tony inhales sharply as the wind is knocked out of him. “Whoa, kiddo. Easy on the squeezing.”

“Mmph,” Peter’s voice is muffled in Tony’s shirt. “I’m happy you’re here!”

Tony tilts his head, narrowly avoiding getting poked in the eye by the kid’s graduation cap. He slides his arms around Peter, hugging him back. “Me too. Thanks for the invite.”

Peter laughs into his shoulder, withdrawing from the embrace. His eyes are scrunched up with mirth, his cap askew, and Tony thinks about how he needs a picture of this to put on his fridge. “Wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Tony rubs at his chest, trying to ignore the swell of his heart. His abdomen does feel sore from the kid’s inordinate strength. “Glad to hear it.”

Peter grins. “I was a little worried you wouldn’t make it. It’s good to see you.”

“You just saw me the other day,” Tony says, tucking his hands into his pockets. “But I am sorry for the delay. I was — er, otherwise occupied.”

“It’s no problem.” Peter’s shoulders rise and fall. “You’re here. That’s what counts.”

Tony nods past the unexpected lump in his throat.

There’s a moment of silence between them, and then Peter coughs. “Anyway, I can show you to where guests are supposed to sit.”

Tony spares a quick glance back towards the table of PTA moms, throwing his thumb over his shoulder. “Don’t I need tickets?”

“Nah, don’t worry about that.” Peter’s smile is toothy and bright. “I promised I’d get your seats! I’ve got you covered.”

“Oh.” Tony blinks once. “Alright. Thanks.”

The surrounding people watch the exchange with interest. Tony has no problem ignoring them, but he notices the way Peter’s eyes flick around the crowd. The kid worries his lip, and Tony’s about to speak when Peter gestures down the hall that he came from. “Here, the ceremony is this way.”

The walls are covered with tall, thin lockers. Some are graffitied, the others a scuffed navy blue that look like they’ve been vandalized in the past. Peter leads them to the end of the hallway where a man sits beside an open door. He greets them with an awkward wave.

“This is where you hand in your tickets,” Peter explains. “I’ve got some here for you —”

“You didn’t have to do that, Pete,” Tony says, because the idea of Peter spending money on him makes him feel more than a little guilty. “I’m a billionaire, remember?”

“As you so love to remind me, yes.” Peter withdraws two tickets from his pockets and hands them to Tony. “One for you, one for Happy. It’s — I wanted to do something for you.”

“You — thanks, Peter.” Tony accepts the tickets. They look like business cards, stark white and emblazoned with gold lettering. _Midtown High School’s 2019 Commencement: Admit One._ “You’re a good kid.”

“It’s nothing. You’ve done a lot more for me.” Peter ducks his head. “You’re doing something right now, just by being here. So, thank you.”

Tony slides the tickets into his back pocket. He takes a moment to process Peter’s words, and his lips part. “Do you think I wouldn’t want to come to something like this?”

“Well —”

“No. No doubts, Peter.” Tony drops his hand onto the kid’s shoulder. He squeezes gently, and Peter meets his eyes. “I’m here because I’m proud of you, and because I want to be. You don’t need to repay me for anything.”

Peter looks down again. “Th-thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“It’s true.” Tony clears his throat, adjusting his collar. He feels warm. “So, uh, can you show me where I’ll be sitting?”

“I’m, um,” Peter passes a quick glance around them. The ticket tender looks bored, his hands clasped across his middle. Down the hall, the crowd of people and PTA moms have all but forgotten about them. “I have to stay inside, but seats aren’t assigned. If you can find May in the seating area, you’re set.” Peter looks back at him. “Or you can just sit by yourself with Happy.”

Tony thinks of Happy making fun of his sunglasses. “Pass. I’ll go find her.”

“Head out that way,” Peter points to the door next to the ticket tender. “The seats are right outside. I don’t think you’ll have a problem finding my aunt.”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

Peter levels his mentor with a flat look. “Dude, gross.”

He looks so totally unamused that Tony chuckles. It’s unbridled and fond, the sort of laugh that only people who know him can elicit. “I’m half-joking.”

“Please don’t —”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony swipes an imaginary tear from under his eye. “You worry too much. Take a deep breath, will you?”

Peter says nothing, but he does as Tony says. His eyes flutter closed as he inhales, and his exhale tapers off into a sigh. “I’m nervous.”

“I can tell.” Tony releases another bark of laughter, and Peter frowns. Of all the things that the kid could fear, a rickety stage and his high school principal should be very low on the totem pole. The absurdity of it is hilarious. “You’ve faced far worse than a diploma, Mr. Parker.”

“That’s totally different!” Peter presses his lips together. “What if — what if I trip, climbing up the stairs to the stage, or something?”

“Then I’ll probably laugh,” Tony admits, and Peter’s expression sours. Tony holds up a hand before the kid can say anything. “But so will you. Life is about rolling with the punches, kiddo. If you fall, you’ll just get up again.”

“I’m — I mean, that’s…” Peter takes a moment to process Tony’s words. His jaw dangles, opening and closing like a fish, and then he tilts his head. “That’s surprisingly insightful, Mr. Stark.”

“‘Surprisingly’?” Tony smiles. It’s a genuine smile, full of pride and a little bit of something else. Tony’s not sure he’s qualified to call it what it is, or if he deserves the title that the admittance would grant him. Mentor. Father figure. Whatever. “You don’t give me enough credit.”

Peter considers this. “Maybe I don’t,” he relents, and his face splits into a small smile.

Tony gives Peter’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Good luck. You’re gonna kill it onstage.”

Peter chokes on a laugh. “It’s not a performance.”

Tony tilts his sunglasses downwards, making direct eye contact with him. His grin is playful. “Superheroes always put on a show. Make it one.”

 

Happy trails behind Tony as they navigate through the sea of chairs. The seating is spread across the football field, aptly remodeled to look like an outdoor concert venue. Tony’s ticket is tucked safely into his back pocket, a souvenir to tuck into Peter’s last Father’s Day card.

May isn’t hard to find in the throng. They scan the seats for thirty seconds before Happy points her out, sitting a few rows away. She wears her signature glasses, her long chocolatey hair tossed over one shoulder. May sees them and waves from her spot, pointing to three extra chairs beside her.

They sidle their way into the stands, passing a few people who make noises of surprise when they recognize them. Tony takes a seat beside May, who smiles at him and gives him a small hug.

“Hi, Tony. Good to see you. Where’s Pepper?”

“Couldn’t make it today, unfortunately.” Tony shrugs. He pushes his sunglasses up to his forehead, squinting at the sudden brightness. “But she sends her love.”

“Aw, that’s a shame.” May frowns, and Tony wonders if she’d been counting on Pepper to dispel the unbearable levels of testosterone surrounding her. “Send her my best.”

“Of course.”

“Hi, May,” Happy says, and Tony dutifully zones out after that.

 

By principle, Tony thinks convocations are pretty boring. Watching other people get rewarded isn’t fun. Tony doesn’t even enjoy his own award ceremonies; he’s been chewed out by Rhodey on over one occasion for that. Tony’s never been to a commencement ceremony other than his own. He’s never had a reason to go to one.

But he sees it in the faces of the parents in the crowd, the way they react to seeing their children stand and be acknowledged for four years of hard work, and, well — Tony thinks it might not be so bad.

The students are announced alphabetically, and the list of names is so long that Tony isn’t fully present. He thinks he hears the name of Peter’s friend, Michelle, and then later Ned or Fred, whomever. It feels like a century has passed by the time Peter Parker’s name is announced, and Peter stands up.

As Peter climbs the steps — without tripping — warmth bubbles in Tony’s chest, blooming outward like a flower. He’s never felt such pride — which is stupid and irrational, because he’s an Avenger, and he’s saved the world more than once. It seems banal to celebrate such little things when he’s a superhero, and a damn good one at that; but not even his heroic feats hold a candle to the satisfaction he feels as Peter crosses the stage.

Peter shakes hands with his principal, grasping the diploma with his other. He turns to face the audience, searching for Aunt May and Tony himself. In this moment, Tony gets it.

It’s an odd thing, parenthood. Mentorhood. Although he doesn’t know whether saying that Peter is like a son to him would cross a line, there are a few things that Tony understands implicitly.

One is that he’s hungry, and he could go for some shawarma.

Another is that Peter’s life is worth more to him than his own, and if he ever called him ‘dad,’ well — Tony wouldn’t mind.

Peter’s smile is blinding, and Tony thinks back to the gift Pepper got him all those years ago, when his arc reactor just barely kept him from dying, when Iron Man was still new; _I guess this is what it’s like to have a heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowow five things, CHECK. it's time for the plus one. I want to put a little disclaimer here, because I know that this will sting a little. chapter six will likely have quite a bit of angst. please keep this in mind when you're reading, but know that it WILL BE RESOLVED and I would never leave the boys hanging like that. I'll see you next week with the new chapter!


	6. A Promise Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one promise Peter breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to wait but I couldn't do it. but whew! we made it. I want to put a disclaimer here: PLEASE READ THIS.  
> remember when I said that Infinity War comes into play eventually? well... yeah. tags have been appropriately updated, and this one might sting a bit. BUT! I want to remind you that the follow-up fic is coming this week. it will resolve E V E R Y T H I N G, I promise. thank you so much for reading, for all of your comments and kudos. much love!
> 
>  
> 
> **don't read on if you're sensitive to the canon events of Infinity War, and feel free to skip to the follow-up one shot where everything is fixed!**

The sun crests the horizon when the world ends.

It’s with a sick irony that Tony watches it rise, choked with a grief so great it’s nauseating. The air in his lungs is stale; he isn’t sure he wants to take another breath.

When he moves, blood seeps from his injuries in streams, and a metallic tang coats his tongue. Each lance of pain feels like electricity shooting through his skin, frying his nerves. It dulls to a throbbing ache, but the hole his chest is still raw, a roaring maw of agony that splits him in two. Sunrises are synonymous with beginnings, a new birth — not the end of everything.

His legs wobble, exhaustion sapping the strength from his limbs, and Tony collapses. The hard earth is strewn with gravel, and pebbles bite into the chinks of the Iron Man suit. Tony remains prone on his knees, a memorial to stand vigil for eternity.

Far above, the stars shine over a barren planet. It feels like an abomination, that they still glow. The universe is fractured; there’s nothing to illuminate but tragedy. Tony thinks they should have disappeared along with everything else, winking out of existence the moment Peter fell from his arms.

Tony inhales, his vocal chords warbling as he strains to utter a single word. “Fuck.” 

It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.

The sky brightens, softening from an angry red to orange. It’s choked with smoke, thick and hazy like a curtain, and Tony’s eyes burn. They flutter closed as a single tear escapes, trickling down his face. It leaves a streak of salt through the dirt and blood.

Peter’s gone.

Tony stifles a soft gasp, and another tear joins the first.  _ This can’t be right. _

The war didn’t come quickly. It wasn’t started with a bombing or with any the acts of theatrical rebellion that one expects from humanity’s history of violence.

There were clues alluding to a larger fight, maybe. The first battle of New York with the Chitauri was a clue. It wasn’t a very good one, considering it suggested armies, and a united alien front — no. Thanos would reign over any single army.

Tony had spent years readying for the possibility of alien warfare. He’d been prepared for plenty of assaults, nuclear and otherwise. No matter how the attack came, he would ward it off with his team, his genius, and his tech.

What he hadn’t expected was that the climax would be one man — one monster. The ability to destroy half of the universe with a single snap of his fingers? Now that was absurd. It was a plot from a comic, laughably overpowered and unrealistic. Tony didn’t believe a word, but he was prepared for the worst.

As it turned out, Tony hadn’t expected a lot of things, the Infinity Gauntlet least of all. It started with a stone, one stone. Then two, and three. Soon — too soon, too quickly for anyone to keep track of — four stones became five, and then there were six. After the sixth came the end of everything.

In hindsight, Tony thinks flying a nuke into a wormhole was a cakewalk. If he could choose between Thanos and an intersolar portal in New York, he would dive into space six more times this week. But he doesn’t have that choice, and the world as he knows it has ended.

With or without him, half of the universe would have been demolished. The destruction was inevitable, and Tony knows this. The only option was to move forward and do what they must, but the truth doesn’t make the reality any easier. Guilt hangs heavy on his back, the full weight of half the universe lost, and Tony is Atlas. He thinks of what he could’ve done differently, what he could’ve done better, to prevent this outcome. Maybe if he’d been more aware, more cautious, more… More of everything he isn’t.

But Strange — the wizard, or warlock, Harry fucking Potter, whatever — had said this is the only way. That this is how they win. And Tony needs to; he needs to win like he needs air in his lungs, needs to save this galaxy and every other from the unholy bastard who played God. But no matter how hard he fights, no matter what he sacrifices, there’s no guarantee he’ll get Peter back.

There are too many unknowns, and too strong of an enemy. There’s a figurative mask over his eyes, leaving him to navigate in the dark. He has no information, little working tech, and injuries that need medical attention. His intel is at absolute zero. If he could communicate with his defunct team, he might stand a chance. Might. But Tony doesn’t even know if Pepper’s okay on Earth, let alone the other Avengers.

Another sharp, stabbing pain reverberates through his chest.

Tony wonders about his fiancée. He wonders if Pepper knows that he loves her, and if she understands why he had to leave. Not that it did any good.

He wonders about what he’ll say to May, if she’s still alive. The thought makes him feel nauseous.

He wonders what he’ll do if he can fix this, reverse this, but at the expense of Peter and everyone else they’ve lost. No matter how Tony looks at it, he can’t imagine that anything that costs him Peter’s life is worth pursuing.

He knows that’s irrational. It’s selfish and one-track minded, because naturally he cares about the rest of the universe, which is suffering just as he is. But the sound of the kid’s cries echo in his head, and Tony can still feel Peter’s fingers grasping for him, pulling him into a desperate embrace as he disintegrates into ash.

Tony touches his chest, the metal armor that protects his heart. There’s a Peter-sized hole carved out, aching like a phantom limb.

“Fuck!” He rasps again, with more vigor. His fist meets the ground, scattering bits of red dirt and gravel. “Why?”

It’s a tiny, three-letter word:  _ why _ . Simple in its execution, but complex in its implications. There’s so much to say with the word, why, and as it leaps off of Tony’s tongue, he isn’t sure which question he’s asking.

Why did Peter eat the granola bar that Tony was saving? Why did Steve go AWOL? Why didn’t Peter stay out of the war?

_ Why him? _

Tony’s head pounds, awash with memories that rise and fall like waves in a storm. He sees flashes of Peter’s smile, hears echoes of the sound of his laughter, his voice.

_ I promised you a surprise. _

_ I promised to save you a seat. _

_ I promise I won’t do anything too dangerous, Mr. Stark. _

_ I promise. _

It’s haunting, like Peter’s ghost sits astride his shoulders, tormenting him from beyond. He puts his fingers to his temples as if to block out the noise, but it’s just about as effective as burying his head in the ground.

Peter had said he wanted to help the little guy, to change the world. Tony wanted to be a hero too, once upon a time; when it came down to it, he couldn’t even save one of the few people in the world he loves more than himself.

What a fucking disgrace. His chest is burning, and Tony thinks he might throw up.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter had said, clutching Tony’s suit. “I don’t feel so good.”

Tony hears it now, as real as it was then. Phantom fingers skitter across his arm, and he feels himself instinctively move to embrace a body that is not there. “Peter —”

“Mr. Stark,” The kid says again, and his voice sounds so real that Tony wonders if he’s cursed to relive this moment forever. Peter speaks with the choked up resignation of one aware of his fate. “I’m sorry.”

It’s an illusion. A hallucination borne of Tony’s desperation, but he answers it anyway, because it’s Peter. It’s still his kid.

“For what?” Tony manages, his voice warbling. The memory is tangible to him, painted on his eyes like a projection, and although he feels nothing, he sees it. He tightens his arms around air, feeling emptiness pressed against him with no arms to hug him back. “Y-you did nothing wrong.”

“I —” Peter coughs, and it sounds like surrender. His breathing is labored, rasping with a grittiness as if the kid has sand in his lungs. “I broke my promise.”

“I — You shouldn’t have been here.” Tony squeezes his eyes shut. “I swear to God, kid. I told you to stay out of it, you said —”

“I know.” Peter blinks away a thin film of tears. A rueful smile stretches across his face. There’s blood on his cheek, a smear of Tony’s or his own, and Tony’s throat constricts. “I’m sorry.”

“You have —” Tony inhales. His shoulders shake as he does so, quaking like the earth rocking beneath him. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry I — I’m sorry that I couldn’t —”

“Don’t —” Peter coughs again. He slouches into Tony’s arms, a deadweight, his voice muffled in the older man’s chest. “Don’t apologize. It’s not — your fault.”

But Tony can’t help but feel that somehow it is.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says again, and he becomes heavier in his mentor’s arms. “I don’t want to go.”

Tony touches Peter’s head, cradling him like a child. Like a son. “I’m gonna make everything alright again.”

Peter’s lips are chapped. He licks them once, and his voice is a croak. “You will?”

“I will,” Tony says, and means it. They’re both weak, their injuries deep, but Tony pulls Peter into a hard embrace. The kid trembles, and Tony clutches him with all of his strength. “I promise.”

“Okay.” Peter has enough time to smile, and he opens his mouth to speak. “Love y —”

But the words never come, because Peter is no longer there. It’s a void, with no evidence of his existence — just a flicker of dust, motes in the early light, and Tony wants to scream.

Like a fucked up magic trick, Peter has disappeared, and Tony’s alone.

His sense of time is warped. Peter has been gone for… he doesn’t even know how long.

He grasps at the air, to touch the moment long since past, but there’s nothing to feel. Tony’s chest cavity is hollow. He doesn’t know where to go from here. Doesn’t know how to go from here, because he’s on a godforsaken alien planet. The cards are stacked against him — a million to one, a single human trapped on a piece of rock in who-knows-where. It’s bullshit, it’s scary, and Tony battles through the urge to lie down and take a permanent nap.

He struggles to bring himself to stand. He summons all of his willpower, drawing on the last dregs of energy in his limbs. It takes a long time, and he almost capitulates more than once.

When he’s on his feet, Tony flicks his gaze towards the heavens. Clouds and smoke obscure most of the sky, swirling like the beginning of a storm. The star overhead cuts through the fog with a brilliant yellow. Tony squints, and the shadows of his eyelashes are cast dark on his cheekbones.

He has leagues to travel, time and space to cross, and injuries that will probably spell the end of him if Thanos doesn’t come first. He stands like a pillar. He represents something, regardless of whether people are here to see him.

The brightness is blinding, but Tony doesn’t avert his eyes. He lifts his chin, his fists falling by his sides. The world — worlds, his and many others — are counting on him.

Tony made a promise, and he intends to keep it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... please don't hate me, I'll fix everything. thank you for reading, I love you all <3
> 
> my army of betas! >>>[Jenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiribakuwu), [Ineia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineia), Meg, THANK YOU AGAIN for reading through my nonsense. the next work in this series is coming soon!!


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